


Sapphire, Lodestone, Emeralds

by neverminetohold



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Community: hobbit_kink, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Romance, Soulmates, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having to visit Erebor is a duty Thranduil resents for many reasons. Meeting a curious young Dwarf reveals the one he has guarded most, and will set things in motion...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Erebor - Then I

The visit to Erebor was a duty that Thranduil came to resent, having to scrape and bow before the King Under the Mountain, paying him homage, as Thrór demanded.  
  
It was an insult, on that day and ever since, even if the invitation arrived written on gilded parchment and was phrased politely enough, hidden within vague promises of new treaties and trade agreements.  
  
Having learned over time that those never bore fruit, the Elvenking grew wary and distrustful of the words of Dwarves, as he had once been after the fall of Doriath, yet he was in no position to outright refuse the charade that was forced upon him.  
  
Thranduil was unwilling to endanger a peace that had lasted for centuries. It was far too precious to squander.  
  
XXX  
  
Thranduil lifted his face towards the sun. The balustrade was warm underneath his hands, fine marble polished by age, the feeling familiar, as was the view over his realm this particular balcony offered him.  
  
No clouds obscured the clear summer sky. Leaves rustled in the mild breeze, the sound almost swallowed by the nearby waterfall, and the sweet scent of flowers in full bloom was heavy in the air, their petals a blaze of colors.  
  
There was magic in this. Thranduil's roots in Greenwood ran deep, binding him to the land, even more so since the passing of the First Age, after dragon fire had touched him. It compensated where his keen senses reached their limits.  
  
A butterfly tumbled closer. The flutter of its wings sent a flicker of shadow over pale skin before it descended on the antlered crown, moving around like a living gem of iridescent blue.  
  
Soft footsteps came up from behind him, their tread sending ripples of sound and vibration through the ground. Thranduil turned towards Legolas, accepting his bow with a nod that did not dislodge the spindly legs clinging to his hair.  
  
“Are the preparations complete?”  
  
“Yes. We are ready to depart at your command.” Legolas hesitated, then added, “We will not leave your side, my Lord. There will be no trouble.”  
  
“Oh?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Do you think me incapable of fending for myself, hên?"  
  
Amusingly, a faint trace of crimson rose to dust Legolas' cheeks and he ducked his head, clearly mortified at the thought. “Goheno nin. I meant no disrespect.”  
  
"Peace, my son. I know you did not." Thranduil gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving away. "Come, it would not do to keep Tauriel and the others waiting."  
  
XXX  
  
They reached Erebor on the second day of an uneventful journey, after having enjoyed the hospitality of Dale.  
  
The Lonely Mountain loomed ahead, its shape and range dominating the landscape, wild and yet tamed by the hands of Aulë's children. The heavy gates stood open for those who sought audience and trade, and the Elvenking's delegation passed through without ceremony.  
  
Leaving behind fortifications manned by guards and statues that bore the likeness of Thrór's forefathers they entered the city beyond, bustling with life and the faint echos of the mines.  
  
To Thranduil, setting foot on the Dwarven realm meant plunging into near darkness, and voluntarily so. Thus each visit served as a reminder of tragedies past and that he was not whole, only appeared as such by the grace of his connection with nature.  
  
It happened now, his ties to the source of his magic growing tenuous, smothered by echoing halls and corridors hewn from granite. His sight faded, became indistinct as colors and light drained away.  
  
A shiver went down Thranduil's spine, but no outsider would ever have spotted a change in his demeanor, for he did not hesitate as he dismounted, nor as he moved to lead his kin down the familiar path to the throne room.  
  
Only then got the routine interrupted, for the guards told him bluntly he was to enter alone or not at all.  
  
XXX  
  
Thorin left the secret passage, closing the slab behind himself with the grinding of stone, not expecting to find anyone in the antechamber - only to come face to face with the Elvenking.  
  
Thorin had never seen an Elf so much as startle, yet Thranduil did, and violently so. His hand reached for a sword he did not carry before it stilled at his side with obvious effort.  
  
Thorin was hard pressed not to grin, delighted by this display of weakness, for he found the Elvenking to be the most insufferable amongst his kin. His arrogance was grating, and grandfather's disdain of Thranduil seemed well-deserved.  
  
"My Lord," Thorin said, amusement plain in his voice, "Forgive me, I had no intention to - "  
  
The Elvenking straightened to his full imposing height, incidentally moving out of the shadows and into the torches' light, and Thorin forgot all about his half-hearted apology.  
  
He choked on a breath as he caught sight of the Elvenking's face. It was a ruin, a hideous one, white bone visible through taut strands of tendon and muscle, raw and red as if still bleeding. The scar, if it could be called thus, covered the left side of his face in its entirety and stretched further, over the bridge of his nose to frame a milky eye.  
  
"Forgive me, Prince Thorin." Thranduil's voice had the quality of silk. "It was not my intention to startle you."  
  
Not rising to the mockery, deafened to it by the realization that the Elf before him was blind, Thorin whispered, "What happened to you?"  
  
There was a moment of silence. Thorin felt as if measured by that unseeing eye, or perhaps the Elven magic Durin's Folk spoke of in whispered tales and with deep-rooted suspicion. Whether it was one or the other, he stood firm under its scrutiny, refusing to feel ashamed for being curious.  
  
Thranduil's smile was halved and thin-lipped, his thoughts impossible to read. "Dragon fire. I fought against Glaurung's spawn in the North."  
  
"You fought against dragons and lived to tell the tale?"  
  
The Elvenking seemed to cringe at the unabashed awe in Thorin's voice, and perhaps it served to remind him of how young the Dwarven prince before him truly was. Thrain's heir had not yet seen the reality of war, was untested in battle, head still filled with songs of adventure, valor and the notion that the forces of good never faltered.  
  
"Let this be a lesson, akhûnith," the Elvenking said. "These marks are a reminder that some foes can only be bested when one is ready to pay the ultimate price."  
  
"And yet you won."  
  
It came out like a challenge. Thorin was confused that Thranduil took no pride in such a great deed, and he fumbled and failed to find words of solace for a pain he felt keenly in the other, like he would have sensed the fault line at the core of a precious gem.  
  
At least his intention he seemed to have managed to convey, because Thranduil smiled, the expression transforming his face, making it shine with the light of the First Born.  
  
"Indeed I did, Prince Thorin. What greater treasure could there be to fight for than the lives of my kin?"  
  
"None."  
  
"None," Thranduil echoed, with a tilt of his crowned head and the same, fierce conviction.  
  
Once more there was silence between them, but now it felt almost companionable, as Thorin found himself re-evaluating what he knew of the Elvenking, his past visits and behavior. His lack of knowledge gained a sudden, disconcerting edge.  
  
"I never..." he started to say, hand rising to indicate his own face and eyes. His fingers brushed his braids as he gesticulated awkwardly, " ..noticed before."  
  
Thranduil looked amused. "And how could you have?"  
  
"Why reveal it now?" Thorin felt himself flush, quite irritated that he had become prone to do so out of the blue. "And to me?"  
  
"Not by choice." Thranduil shrugged, a somehow delicate and graceful movement. "My magic is weak here in the realm of your people, diminished by the stone as it is strengthened by the forest. You surprised me, Prince Thorin, and thus the illusion failed. There is nothing more to it."  
  
As if to prove his words, a veil of green-flecked light gathered around the Elvenking and the air in the chamber filled with a sweet, earthen scent. Thorin watched, caught between fascination and faint disgust, as the damage appeared to heal, as if it were a wound like any other that faded to nothing given time.  
  
Left behind was the countenance Thorin was familiar with, smooth pale skin and eyes like sapphires. They were sharp and focused, heavy for the ages they had witnessed.  
  
Noises could suddenly be heard from the other side of the door, destroying the illusion that the two of them dwelt in a world of their own. The audience would soon begin and Thorin was expected to attend.  
  
"I need to go," he said in a rush, manners and protocol falling to the wayside.  
  
"If I may ask a favor?"  
  
Thorin stopped, hand already on the stone slab and planning which way to take to make it in time without rousing suspicions. Father would be furious, yet for once, Thorin found he did not care.  
  
He turned back, having no need to ask what the Elf spoke of, and all too willing to grant it, because such confidence given must be honored.  
  
"I will keep your secret, Thranduil Elvenking. You have my word."  
  
Thorin bowed in Dwarven fashion, showing his empty hands as a sign of trust, and left in a hurry.  
  
Later, he found that the scent of Greenwood still clung to his hair and fur-trimmed coat, and when Balin asked him what there was to smile about, he had no answer to give.  
  
Thorin pretended to return to his studies, using the opportunity to hide away scrolls taken from the library. None of them were written in Khuzdul.


	2. Erebor - Then II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship was always to be found in Erebor, yet its change is noticed within and without...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left a comment, kudos or bookmarked this FF! It's almost silly how happy that makes me XD

The visit to Erebor had always been a duty that Legolas looked forward to, for the chances to leave the Woodland Realm were few and far between, and his curiosity not easily appeased by stories and songs.  
  
As a child he would steal away and explore the city on his own, until Dwarven guards returned him to the royal quarters. Their dealings interrupted, Thranduil would chide him, but King Thrór never failed to give Legolas a wink behind his father's back.  
  
To his regret, such easy friendship had been replaced by cold indifference, reducing each journey to a political necessity. Worse, an age-old darkness had taken root in Greenwood, twisting its essence, invading it with its eight-legged spawn.  
  
It was a burden Legolas wished to share and ease. Thus, he discarded such childish ways to take his place at his father's side, serving him faithfully.  
  
XXX  
  
Erebor's splendor never failed to impress Legolas, even if Thranduil and the others seemed to pay it no heed.  
  
The ceiling, albeit nearly out of sight, sparkled like the night sky with inlaid diamonds and the granite was veined with gold. No wall was unadorned of runes, intricate symbols or murals that spoke of Mahal and his deeds, never to be forgotten. Each column vanishing into the depths or the darkness above, supporting the many layers of the great city, was shaped in memory of Durin; statues standing silent vigil.  
  
The air was ripe with the scent of heated metal, a faint trace of ground stone and something more heavy and richer than soil. The noise of hammer, anvil and chisel was relentless, the mines lit to rival the sun.  
  
All of it was familiar, from the living quarters and guild hall to the library, as they followed the main street, steps silent on polished obsidian.  
  
And yet...  
  
Legolas' pace slowed, bringing him closer to his father's side, eyes roaming the streets and market stalls to find the source of his unease. It took him a moment to realize that neither womenfolk nor children were to be seen. The displayed groceries lacked their usual variety, imports from Dale missing, and if a merchant met his gaze at all, it was with cagey reluctance.  
  
Crossing the last bridge to their destination, Legolas looked down to see frantic activity at the mountain's roots. More Dwarves than ever before mined for gems and precious metals, safety lines and lanterns a confusing web, keeping them aloft over the yawning chasm.  
  
The picture lacked the deep sense of contentment it usually carried, pride taken in a craft enjoyed with utter dedication. It had been replaced by something... darker.  
  
It pained Legolas, to think that the suspicions his father had shared with him in the quiet of his study might have truth to them, for the consequences would be dire and affect not only them but also the Men of Dale.  
  
“Ada...”  
  
Thranduil, calm and aloof to all but his son, nodded. “I know.”  
  
Nothing more was said until they reached the antechamber. There the delegation bowed and stepped aside, leaving the Elvenking to his meeting with Thrain's heir, who had waited for him, as had become his wont.  
  
XXX  
  
“Gi suilon, mellon nîn,” Thorin said, tongue no longer stumbling over the unfamiliar words. He bowed deeply and the beads he had earned clicked together, loud in his ears because he was not yet used to their presence. “Baren bar lin. Le hannon a tholel.”  
  
“I thank you for your welcome, Prince Thorin,” Thranduil returned with a tilt of his head and a smile that softened the edge of his cold demeanor. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn."  
  
Pleasantries exchanged, Thorin felt himself measured as Thranduil took in whatever change the passing of five years had brought him. Time had certainly not touched the Elf, his beauty eternal, and sharing the truth he hid did nothing to diminish fact.  
  
"You have grown."  
  
Once, Thorin would have been offended by such a comment. His height had been a sore point with him ever since his first visit to Dale, where Men towered over him, only to discover that Elves were taller still.  
  
But now that he had made a study of the First Born he recognized the compliment as such, knew it referred to life experience and personal growth. Even though it warmed him, Thorin suspected his smile carried a grim edge.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"I see there was a price to pay," Thranduil said, picking up on his tension with ease. "What ails you?"  
  
The gesture was fleeting, barely a weight on his shoulder, but the Elvenking's cool fingers seemed to burn through his coat, and Thorin had to force a slow exhale as they fell away.  
  
What indeed.  
  
A dark year lay behind him. One spent worrying over the changes he had seen in his grandfather, favoring treasure over duty, the gleam in his eyes. Thráin's denial and refusal to listen, the state of the court and unrest amongst his kin, how their relationship with Dale deteriorated. The accident only last week, a cave-in that buried three of their best miners, due to nothing but unrealistic demands; lives wasted.  
  
All his worries crowded on the tip of his tongue, yet how could Thorin, heir of Durin's line, share them with an outsider?  
  
He truly wished for the counsel of a trusted friend beyond Balin and Dwalin, but pride aside, he knew that Thrór would consider such an indiscretion nothing short of treason. The walls of Erebor had grown eyes and ears, yet Thorin was desperate and frustrated. And perhaps there was no need to speak of his fears aloud...  
  
"You cannot tell me that you have not noticed. I know that you Elves are -sensitive to the state of things."  
  
"True," Thranduil said, taking his graceless evasion in stride. "And unnecessary, all things considered."  
  
There had been no bite to his words, yet Thorin flushed, reminded of the fact that the Elvenking's cause for concern preceded his by far. Thrór declaring himself chosen to rule by the Valar upon the discovery of the Arkenstone and demanding homage had led to their meeting, after all.  
  
"Forgive me. I did not think - "  
  
"That is the prerogative of youth," Thranduil interrupted him.  
  
Thorin huffed a laugh, glad that Dwalin had patrol duty and thus missed another chance to stick his nose where it didn't belong, namely his friendship with the 'tree-shagger' he so vocally disapproved of. Otherwise, axes would have been drawn at this point.  
  
"Still," Thranduil continued, "I do feel a tension lying over both Dale and Erebor. And it seems to me that the output of the mines has been increased to a degree Middle-Earth has not known since the First Age."  
  
Thorin had to ball his hands into tight fists to stop them from shaking. He had seen it, gold coins and gems running through calloused fingers, the hem of a cape making them tinkle and chink and roll down their towering mountains, heard the sound of heavy breathing, labored with excitement and glee. A silent witness in the shadows, Thorin had failed to find his beloved grandfather in that stranger.  
  
He felt tired suddenly and the weight of kind sapphire eyes became a burden Thorin found it difficult to meet. Something clenched in his gut, burning like shame. There was no doubt that the Elvenking knew exactly what ailed Thrór: gold-fever.  
  
"I tried to warn him, yet Thrór would not heed my advice," Thranduil said, voice soft with regret. "The Arkenstone is a void, devouring all light, no matter its beauty. Nothing good will be sown into the hearts it enthralls, nor is it the kind of treasure that will go unnoticed by those that would covet it most."  
  
"You speak as if all is lost," Thorin growled. He took a calming breath and smelled flowers, only then realizing that he had stepped closer as if to threaten. "He can still be reached."  
  
He believed it with utter certainty, but the double-winged doors opened before a reply could be given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking for someone who knows Sindarin/Khuzdul. I need (both for this FF and another one I'm planning) two things translated resp. a term for something (or rather: someone). Any offer of help would be greatly appreciated!


	3. Interlude - Balin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin offers Thorin his advice...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who left a comment or kudos! Guys, you are awesome! :)

The Lonely Mountain. Greatest of the Dwarven kingdoms, and pride of Aulë's children.  
  
Thorin was well aware of his heritage, that Durin's blood flowed through his veins, but more than anything else, Erebor was home. Here thrived his people and lived his family.  
  
The stone sang with the presence of his kin. It guided their skilled hands and touched their hearts, it tied their souls together to make them One, and Thorin was but a tiny part of that great treasure.  
  
The walls that had echoed with his first scream would also catch the whisper of his last breath, on that day when the Halls of Mandos welcomed him, King Under the Mountain.  
  
His path in life was certain, and Thorin content.  
  
XXX  
  
Balin had searched Erebor high and low, feeling rather flat-footed and a little disgruntled for it, and all thanks to a prince no one asked could account for since the first meal.  
  
While he was used to young Frerin trying to escape his lessons in ever more creative ways, particularly those revolving around etiquette, dance and polite conversation, Thorin being anything but punctual was unusual.  
  
Granted, the lad had been restless recently and prone to mood swings, bursting with energy and seeking solitude by turns. If Balin hadn't known that his prince was without the longing, he would have suspected that Mahal's blessing had touched Thorin, granting him his fateful meeting.  
  
“Where to now?” Balin muttered, having run out of ideas.  
  
The last place left to look, even though unlikely, was Thorin's chamber in the royal quarters. After that, Balin was duty-bound to assume a more serious cause for his disappearance and would need to alert the guards.  
  
They had made enemies as of late, guilds and gentry discontent, and those with political foresight were right to fear that their numbers would grow in the future. Thrór had always been ambitious, and the discovery of the Arkenstone had only kindled that old spark.  
  
He privately feared that there was more to it, yet without proof Thráin would not listen, and Thorin was but a child, loving his grandfather dearly. Ill-chosen words held the potential for disaster, thus Balin was reluctant to press a matter that might resolve itself, given time.  
  
Stroking his beard in mild agitation, Balin's feet nearly carried him past his destination.  
  
“Prince Thorin?” He knocked, three sharp raps. He waited and, looking up and down the deserted corridor, went so far as to put his ear against the oaken door. “I'm coming in,” he warned, despite having heard nothing.  
  
The small reception room lay empty before him except for its furniture and a single, singed tapestry. Balin remembered that incident fondly, even though the Master of the Forge had not been too enthused when his equipment had gone missing, and later returned to him with stains of water and rust.  
  
Balin chuckled and let himself into the bedroom. There, a mild breeze came in from the balcony, filling the curtains and rustling the sheets on the music stand, carrying the smell of summer.  
  
A harp gleamed in all its golden beauty where it rested against an armchair, caught in the rays of the setting sun. Its strings had first drawn blood, then blisters, before producing the truest tones, running up and down the scale, accompanied by Thorin's deep voice.  
  
The only sign of his wayward prince was a pile of clothes in front of the wardrobe and plentiful of books, strewn haphazardly over the carpet, as if pulled out in haste and then forgotten.  
  
Balin hummed as he stepped closer, noticing parchments half visible in the gap between the back panel and the usually so neat row of reading material. A simple hiding place, but one that would serve its purpose well enough.  
  
Before he could reach the end of his internal debate on whether to inspect them or not, Balin heard the scratch of quill on paper. It came from the little study he had all but forgotten about since it was so rarely put to good use.  
  
Thorin fulfilled his duties with the grace and solemn decorum the line of Durin was known for amongst their kin, starting two years ago, when Thráin had taken him to attend his first council meeting. But he had always been a stormy child, loving to roam free and with a preference for weapons training and tournaments over intellectual pursuits. Much like Frerin, sans his younger brother's love of pranks.  
  
And yet here Thorin sat at his desk, head bowed over a scroll that seemed ready to fall apart, one hand smoothing it out with great care, while the other held a magnifying glass. His lips moved as he struggled with the ancient script, one braid coming undone as he twirled it in frustration.  
  
Thorin let go of his hair and looked up as the candles flickered in a sudden draft, and Balin was amused to see him freeze like a deer caught in the hunter's sight.  
  
“Master Balin.” Thorin nodded by way of greeting, not making any effort to try and hide the scrolls that cluttered his desk, though the impulse seemed there. “Forgive me, I must have lost track of time. I had no intention to miss - ”  
  
“Do not worry, my Prince,” Balin interrupted with good humor, too intrigued for a lecture. “I am overjoyed to see you study voluntarily, though the shock might send me to an early grave.”  
  
Thorin set the magnifying glass aside and scowled. “You must confuse me with Frerin.”  
  
“Not at all.” Balin reached for a parchment and gave it a gentle tug towards the circle of light. “May I see?”  
  
“Nosy,” Thorin grumbled into his beard, but obediently lifted his elbow. “It is nothing. Idle curiosity.”  
  
Balin was surprised to find the paper covered in the elegant loops and curls of Elvish. A quick glance at a stack of dusty tomes revealed them as dictionaries, and beside those lay freshly inked notes in Thorin's bold handwriting.  
  
“'The War of Wrath.' What a curious choice of topic,” Balin commented. “Has your meeting with the Elvenking sparked this sudden interest in history?”  
  
Thorin shifted in his seat, then stilled. “Hardly. It was a very formal affair. I barely spoke to him.”  
  
“Have you taken offense at something King Thranduil said? He can be...,” Balin gestured distractedly, struggling to find a polite euphemism, “...difficult.”  
  
Thorin huffed a laugh and Balin grimaced. Both knew very well that Thrór found far more colorful adjectives when it came to describing the Elvenking and his kin, even in these times of friendship.  
  
“I did not,” Thorin answered, his features softening. “And I agree that he is proud to the point of arrogance, but then, all Elves are.”  
  
Balin smiled, thinking that prejudices and pride were something Elves and Dwarves had very much in common, but refrained from sharing his observation. Thorin had grown up sheltered and should be allowed to draw his own conclusions.  
  
“He also seemed very aloof, as if few things could hope to touch him or hold his attention.”  
  
Balin nodded, wondering at the tone in Thorin's voice. It could have been pity or sadness just as well as bland curiosity.  
  
“He is immortal, my Prince. Thranduil measures his time in centuries and millennia. I imagine joy and pain have left their mark on him.”  
  
Thorin pondered that for a moment, his expression inscrutable. “So you say the First Born are set apart from us.”  
  
“In a way, but not as much as they would wish for us to think.”  
  
Balin nodded to himself, the memory clear: pouting Legolas, chased down by Dwarven guards and dragged back to his father's side, and the Elvenking himself, waxing poetic after too splendid a feast, with a drowsy Thrór sitting beside him, nodding along.  
  
He was a bit bewildered by Thorin's sudden, crestfallen expression, but was quick to give him a hearty slap on the back that rattled bone and inkwell alike.  
  
“Take heart, my Prince. Go ahead if you wish to strike up a friendship with one of the Elves. Different they may be, but it's nothing that can't be overcome with enough effort.”  
  
Not the kind of advice Thrór would be pleased with, especially now that their relations had soured, but Balin saw no harm in it. Surely, he was simply worrying too much in the first place and if not, then such a bond could only serve Erebor well.  
  
“Thank you, Balin.” Thorin smiled at him, sitting up straight in a way that spoke of new-found resolve. “I think I will do just that.”


	4. Erebor - Then III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A longing is realized, and the parting of ways...

Strong ties once connected Eryn Galen and Erebor, the Woodland Realm of the Elves and the Dwarven kingdom.  
  
Under the banner of neighborhood and cooperation they shared skills and resources, in times of unrest and peace. For centuries the trade of goods and services went both ways, resulting in a friendship that overcame the burden of a past marked by distrust and strife between their races.  
  
Most significant, perhaps, had been two singular events: Dwarves being called upon to build the Elvenking's Hall and Thranduil himself saving King Thrór's life in battle.  
  
Steady had that bond grown, into something warmer, and the exchange of tokens of gratitude became a honored tradition...  
  
XXX  
  
No knock preceded Dwalin as he strode into his prince's chambers, tread heavy on the carpet because of all the armor and weapons he carried in preparation for his patrol duty. He caught sight of Thorin and scowled.  
  
“You look like a peacock.”  
  
“I do not,” Thorin returned, calm and not in the least childish. He closed his wardrobe after one last look into the mirror. “This attire is perfectly acceptable for the occasion.”  
  
Dwalin let his eyes wander, up and down, until his friend couldn't help but squirm a little under the close scrutiny. Thorin wore a rich blue tunic, hem and seams embroidered with runes, a fur-trimmed coat, his signet ring and a silver belt.  
  
Dwalin grunted, taking in the number of his carefully arranged braids and the beads Thorin had chosen, and was none too pleased with the implications, no matter how innocently ambiguous.  
  
Worse yet, the tree-shagger wouldn't even realize their meaning, and Mahal help his prince if anyone else did, in these times where their alliance with the Elves was strained to near breaking point.  
  
For that matter, did Thorin himself even know how deep his arse was stuck in denial?  
  
Of course, it was not Dwalin's place to interfere, no matter how much he wanted to. He ached in silence for his friend. This longing seemed a cursed blessing, for nothing good at all could come of this; it smacked of tragedy.  
  
Still, it amazed him to no end, that he should be the only one to spot the glaring obvious - even Balin had disappointed, and Dwalin hoped that the day would come where he could tease his brother about it without any trace of lingering bitterness.  
  
“Close enough, if you ask me.”  
  
“Did you only come to mock me?” Thorin turned to peruse the contents of his jewelry box. “Or was there another reason?”  
  
“Oh, it's nothing important,” Dwalin assured in a drawl that earned him a suspicious look. “Just that your father is asking for you.”  
  
Thorin's curse was vile for someone of royal blood. Dwalin barked a laugh and watched him pick a silver clasp at random to hold his beard together. Thorin fumbled with it, rendered clumsy in his haste to leave.  
  
Rolling his eyes Dwalin snatched it out of his hand. “Here, let me.”  
  
“Thank you,” Thorin said, and bared his throat.  
  
“There,” Dwalin muttered, calloused fingers gentle as he adjusted the clasp. “As presentable as you'll ever get.”  
  
“Flatterer.” Thorin snorted, but his smile was genuine. “I will see you after the ceremony.”  
  
Dwalin nodded. “Take the shortcut. Thráin is in the treasury.”  
  
XXX  
  
Faced with the gleam of gold and gems, heaps and mountains of them as far as the eye could see, Thorin had to suppress a grimace. Once a pleasure to behold, a source of pride, these riches at the core of Erebor now filled him with unease.  
  
If the hearts of his closest kin were flawed, was he not doomed to share their fate?  
  
A shiver ran up his spine as he realized that his father stood in the exact same spot he himself had the day before, watching his grandfather wander the halls as if entranced. It seemed an ill portent.  
  
“Thorin,” Thráin called, voice dark with impatience. He held a small chest in his hands, his knuckles white, as if reluctant to ever part with it. “You have kept me waiting.”  
  
“Father.” Thorin bowed deeply before him, saddened that stiff formality had become the extent of their interactions as of late. “My sincerest apologies. It will not happen again.”  
  
“Make sure that it doesn't,” Thráin said, his pose rigid. He lifted the lid. “Well? What do you think?”  
  
Thorin stepped closer to look inside and found the chest filled to the brim with emeralds of the finest water. They shone with a pure, verdant luster in the torches' light, perfect for their lack of breaking fissures and inclusions.  
  
“A worthy gift,” he answered and meant it, sure beyond any shade of doubt that they would please the Elvenking. “Would you allow me to do the honor?”  
  
“Not this time.” Thráin's expression was grim. “Go and welcome our guests.”  
  
XXX  
  
The proceedings were stilted and ritualistic, enough so that Thorin deemed it safe to pay them no heed. He felt ill at ease after his short conversation with the Elvenking, no matter that he ought to be grateful for his honesty.  
  
Thranduil had called the Arkenstone a void. It left Thorin wondering how the blind Elf perceived the world, and it angered him, that one who claimed friendship would give voice to such a foolish notion.  
  
Thorin could see it from where he stood, this jewel of unearthly beauty, that shone as if the stars had been lured from the sky and trapped inside. It looked so perfect, a precious treasure...  
  
Balin tensed beside him and grabbed his arm, fingers digging into muscle to the point of pain, and Thorin's focus returned to the present. He had no recollection of moving, but found he had drifted closer to his grandfather's throne.  
  
“Indeed. Our mines are filled with riches beyond measure,” Thrór said just then, voice sharp with possessive pride. “Let me honor you, King Thranduil, with proof of my claim.”  
  
The gentry on the balconies, spectators gathered for the occasion, drew in a collective breath as Thráin brought forth the chest with measured steps. He presented its contents with a slight bow, and the emerald's beauty danced in widening eyes.  
  
“With great joy, I accept this gift,” Thranduil said, after a moment of drawn-out silence.  
  
Thorin saw his cautious smile and felt tender with fondness. Yet as Thranduil's hand rose to touch the gems something seemed amiss. This was no simple delight, it ran deeper, solemn and reverent. There was a vulnerability to it that made Thorin uncomfortable to bear it witness.  
  
And then the lid of the chest snapped shut with a sound that echoed like thunder through the great hall.  
  
“Proof, nothing more,” Thrór called, as he rose from his throne to his full height. “From this day onward, we owe your kind nothing.”  
  
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. Beside him Balin made a pained noise, and Thorin himself paled, horrified at such an insult. To deny a token of gratitude was to sever all ties. Worse, it could mean war, and here Thorin stood, prince of Erebor, and as helpless in the face of such insanity as any stable boy.  
  
No one dared to speak or move.  
  
Somehow, Thranduil had managed to keep his composure. His face gave away nothing. The tips of his fingers rested lightly on his son's sword arm, while his other hand was raised to halt his guards.  
  
“Proof I have seen indeed,” Thranduil said, his point clear to all with no need to elaborate.  
  
His cold eyes slowly wandered over those gathered and Thorin found he could not meet them. Shame churned in his stomach, rivaled only by anger and despair. He had seen the signs, but failed to listen, to act, and now his people would suffer for it.  
  
“And yet,” Thranduil continued, his tone not unkind, “in the name of our long friendship and the best interest of both our kin, I implore you to reconsider your actions.”  
  
“Begone, Elvenking,” Thrór spat, his crown haloed by the Arkenstone and face red with blind rage. “Covet our treasures from afar! The gates of Erebor shall forever remain closed to you.”  
  
Thorin only saw his grandfather's back, but heard the misguided triumph in his voice easily enough. The king he had loved and admired seemed lost, unreachable. All that remained was a shade, a mockery.  
  
In the throes of gold-fever Thrór had no inkling of what it was that he just squandered without care, nor was he able to foresee the consequences.  
  
“As you wish,” Thranduil said – and tilted his head, which was as close to a bow and open deference as the Elvenking ever came.  
  
He did so not facing the bewildered Thrór or Thráin, but Thorin, before he swept out of the throne room, his delegation not far behind.  
  
And because the Creator can be cruel, it was then that Thorin _knew_.


	5. Interlude II - Sapphire, Lodestone, Emeralds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin commits an act of rashness, the last one for a long while...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos or comments! :)

Thorin had heard the songs as a child, had listened to them with rapt attention, for unlike the fairy tales of Men and Elves, these were true as stone. They spoke of courting gifts and heroic deeds, tragedy and love.  
  
Lying in bed, his mother's kiss a soft memory on his brow, he had dreamed of his own fated meeting, had tried to imagine his One, and wished for him or her with all the might of his young heart.  
  
All khazâd held out hope, yet few were willing to discuss a matter of such sacred intimacy. Those who did described their longing as similar to the call of precious gems that whispered from deep within the mountain.  
  
Thorin's was nothing like that. It felt... _alien_ , and rightly so in hindsight.  
  
He dreamed of the ivory spires of a great white city and a majestic forest. He inhaled and smelled a sweet earthen scent, damp soil and leaves and blooming flowers. He felt the sudden need to learn, to understand the path of a stranger. He gained a calm like a bottomless well that was not his own, for it shattered too easily when faced with the furnace that was Dwarven anger.  
  
Thorin thought of sapphire eyes, their cool regard and kindness, and came to fear that treacherous pull, beckoning him closer, irresistible as lodestone. He wished to possess and protect, to touch and kiss, for them to join in the throes of passion...  
  
And then, on that day in Erebor's throne room, Thorin was finally forced to admit the truth: Thranduil, immortal King of the Elves and father to a son, would never be his to have and hold, would never even think of himself as anything but whole.  
  
XXX  
  
Thorin felt the edges of the chest dig into his arms, clutching it too tightly under the unsettling weight of the Elvenking's gaze, both puzzled and contemplative.  
  
“I am certain you mean well,” Thranduil said, voice stern and distant, but hand gentle as he closed the lid over the emeralds, “but these are not yours to give.”  
  
“I --” Thorin swallowed, at a loss for words, feeling young and foolish.  
  
His heart was thundering in his chest, the rush of blood loud in his ears. Truly, he wished to take back Thrór's cruel words, to make amends and find a way to reconcile their people. But Thorin was also keenly aware that he lacked the power to do so, that this was an act of rashness, committed for selfish reasons. Yet he held his head high, refusing to let shame settle into his heart.  
  
If he was meant to be denied happiness, then so be it. But had he done nothing now, not even tried, would have meant to live with the bitter taste of regret until his dying day.  
  
“My apologies,” Thorin finally settled on, feeling his smile waver. “It seems I failed to think yet again.”  
  
“There is nothing to forgive, mellon nin. Your heart is true." Thranduil inclined his head, studying the young dwarf before him intently, before reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Be at peace. What happened today was no fault of yours."  
  
Thorin had to close his eyes, felt pulled apart by warring emotions. “Thank you.”

“Na lû e-govaned vîn.”  
  
The lips that brushed his brow in farewell were cool and soft. To not follow them with his own, to claim them and linger, took strength Thorin had not known he possessed, but all he did was shiver, and stand rooted to the spot.  
  
The breeze blowing in from the tunnel's entrance was mild, carrying the smells and sounds of the stables that lay beyond, blocked out only when Thranduil turned to leave. The raw-edged urgency of his longing gentled and settled, a shadow of what could have been.  
  


“Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal,” Thorin whispered.  
  
His soft voice echoed, fervent as a prayer, but his One was long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I will skip over Smaug's attack on Erebor. I have already covered my personal head-canon in "Wounds that can't be mend", and even though that was not written with SLE in mind, it still fits, imho.

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-fill of sorts for this prompt (http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20658943#t20658943) on the Hobbit Kink Meme on Livejournal.


End file.
